


The Boy, The Beast

by tboi



Series: FE Oneshots [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 18:20:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7724911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tboi/pseuds/tboi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh, how it consumes him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy, The Beast

**Author's Note:**

> my r+y keys broke whilst i was writing this. i had to copy and paste every single one.
> 
> (comments, kudos, and everything are as always very appreciated - let me know if theres anything i can fix/improve on.)

_Ah, I am worn out-_

_I am wearied out-_

_It is too much._

 

Lyon turns all the mirrors in the castle around.

Plated with gold, and worth far more than he is, he stains his fingerprints on the glass – and sometimes, they're bloodied – just to stop himself from having to gaze into his own eyes.

Gaunt, and empty – he is all sharp edges, all bone and pale, peeling skin that cuts far too easily, thick, blue veins visible all over his body, that make him sick to look at, as they pump life round him.

He is a walking corpse, and when he sleeps it is barely apparent that he is breathing – sometimes the clerics shake him awake in a panic, because they believe he had stopped, once and for all, claimed by illness like so much of the country believes he soon will be. When he shakes them away, a fake smile plastered upon his lips, thanking them for the concern, really, but he has to rest – he always murmurs to himself.  
“If only.”

 

–

When he dreams, it is always of them.

 

“We think,” Ephraim begins.  
“That you're beautiful.” Eirika finishes, voices so similar, and yet, a different softness to Eirika's than the hint of a laugh that seems ever present in Ephraim's, ready to burst forward, just below the surface.

Lyon's left hand is entwined with Ephraim's – his right with Eirika's.

“No, I-” Lyon begins, and then. “Where am I?”  
“With us.” the twins say, speaking in unnerving unison, two sets of bright, blue eyes on him. Lyon shudders.  
“This is fake.” he states, head beginning to pound, and the twins begin to melt in front of him, turning into messes of shattered features before his eyes, reminding him of the stain glass windows in the castle's church where he goes to pray, always for their safety, their prosperity, the people of his land – never for himself.  
He never lets go of their hands, not even as they mold into sharp shapes that make him bleed, and he wakes up with a fever, crying, hands empty, heart aching, head pounding with the knowledge that he is so _unworthy_.

 

–

 

He can't bring himself to visit the church after this – the stained glass murals just remind him of his dream, of their bodies sharpening, cutting him, slicing him, the fever that persisted for days afterwards, clinging to him like the dark spirits he'd been warned about when he first took up the tome.  
_Do not be tempted_ , he had been told, and he hadn't – not until the nightmare. It clung to him as his illness did, bone deep, the fear that festered in his heart slowly bubbling to the surface.

He didn't know why he felt this way. He didn't know if everyone dreamt of their friends every night, woke up crying at the thought of losing them, filled with anxiety so intense it could cause him to vomit some mornings, and that was when the dreams were kinder.

 

When they were crueller, he would wake up screaming, sometimes. Sometimes he would wake up sweating, and the fevers it induced would last for hours, at times – days, at others.  
Sometimes, he would use a knife to watch his blood spill after these dreams – it would drop, staining the dark wood of his floor and the white of his bedsheets. He couldn't find himself caring – the servants never asked.

He wonders if the voice in his head he's slowly become aware of that beckons him towards the throne room is still interested.

 

\--

 

Ephraim and Eirika come to visit just as the leaves are turning orange on the cherry trees that litter the castle's courtyard. He'll have to offer them some, he thinks – they're almost out of season. He greets them with a wave and they greet him with hugs that are more like tackles.

 

Grado is a country rich for its agriculture in the North – abandoned in the South for the marshes that creep across the bottom half of the land. Lyon's never been, stuck in the capital of the country his entire life due to sickness, but he can't help but feel like he has. Despite a large amount of the country simply being unfit for cultivation, it's rich – richer than anywhere else on the planet, Eirika and Ephraim claim, voices full of marvel, amazement. Lyon laughs, and it's full and genuine – he isn't sure about that, but they seem determined that their claim is true.

 

They've been here before – seen the castle, _his castle_ , they call it, but really it's his father's. Maybe they think of it like a second home, Lyon thinks, fondly, over dinner one evening. He has to stick to gentle foods, so not to upset his stomach – he nibbles slowly at his rice, bland and plain, as the twins sit in front of him shovelling soup into their mouths.

It is in this moment that he realises he is in love with them – both of them, fully, equally.

 

–

 

They always sleep in his room. His bed is huge – countless hours he has spent sweating a fever out under the huge, white blanket that covers it. Eirika lies to his right, and Ephraim to his left. Ephraim is speaking about how good the food is here, when Eirika interrupts him.  
“Why is your mirror turned around?” she asks, and Lyon feels his dinner try to rise as the same sharp eyes from his dream all those weeks ago are now both trained on him.  
“Um,” he starts, stops, suppresses a cough. “It's nothing.” Ashamed, he forces his gaze to the ground, to a small bloodstain.  
He sees them lock eyes, understanding glinting in them, then back to him – two warm smiles face him.  
“We have always admired you, you know?” Eirika asks him, and Lyon closes his eyes, expecting to be thrust awake any second now.  
He isn't, and the hands that clasp his are real, flesh, warm and tender and oh, so gentle.  
“I don't deserve your kindness.” he tells them, regret flooding his throat as the words escape, wishing he could swallow them back down, he doesn't want to burden them with his petty problems – he doesn't matter, _he doesn't matter_.

Surely, they've realised this by now – he's just stating the obvious, and he bites back a cruel laugh that is not entirely his own.

 

They say nothing, and he half expects them to leave, but then there's the weakest kiss placed upon the right of his forehead, and then, to the left, too.  
They sleep, their hands never leaving his, and he dreams of nothing.

 

–

 

The next time the twins visit, it is not a visit, and they do not see Lyon, and the circumstances are far different, and Ephraim is crying.  
Sounds of war fill the room behind them, but they trust their comrades, have total faith - walk in perfect unison towards the throne room, where they know he will be.

He is there, one look at him tells them that it's not him, not Lyon, it's something else. It sits, perched upon the throne, swinging one thin leg over the side – a stranger in Lyon's body. He would never have done that – he hated taking up unnecessary space.

The smile upon its face is nothing like Lyon's – it's all teeth, and more of a sneer, and unspeakably cruel – cruelness Lyon did not possess, the twins were certain.

 

Kind, compassionate, 'the love of my life,' Ephraim would go on to tell the people of Renais, after this was all said and done.

 

Sweet, gentle, 'so brave,' Eirika would stand behind him and say.

 

“That wasn't him – at the end. That wasn't him.” they would both say, remind eachother, upon waking from nightmares.

 


End file.
